


Was ist die Befindlichkeit des Landes?

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Creepy Behavior, Flogging, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, I liked her so I gave her a name and a past and stuff, In the credits she's just listed as 'Dominatrix', Pain, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Transitioning, creepiness, generally disturbing, terrible people doing terrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like an old-fashioned fairy tale: there's blood and murder, and someone gets turned into a handsome prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was ist die Befindlichkeit des Landes?

**Author's Note:**

> There's probably something here, potentially, to upset just about anyone, so take the warnings seriously. My involvement with S and M has been peripheral and informal; if I got something really wrong, please tell me, Dear Readers.  
> The title comes from the song of the same name, by Einstürzende Neubauten. I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

When he first meets Lady Grace, he's eighteen. He meets her at a lesbian bar- where he's, of course, not yet legally old enough to drink, but where else is he supposed to meet women? The girls at school think he's a freak: he's too tall; his hair is too short, and dyed an obviously artificial shade of black; he shaves off his eyebrows and draws them on; he's too into the dissection units they do in his Biology class. The girls he sees at shows are usually there with their boyfriends. Here, at least, he's reasonably sure that no one's brought a boyfriend.  
Tonight, he's at Big Mama's, Gotham's oldest lesbian bar. He already struck out at the Cat Box, the Mink Muff, and Les Girls. After this, he doesn't know where else to go. There are rumors about private parties at a place called the Fish Bone. For people like him. From what he's heard, though, you have to be connected to get in there even if you're normal, and Victor's not connected to anyone or anything.  
“Yeah, go in,” says the woman on the door, not even glancing at the ID he stole from his sister.  
Vicki had suspected him right away.  
“Why would I want it?” he'd sneered, “We don't even look the same.”  
Vicki's a natural blonde, wears flats and very little make up, and lies about her height to seem shorter.  
“Thank God for that,” she'd sneered right back.  
It's disappointing that no one wants to acknowledge in any way the effort he's put into just being here.  
No one, at all. It looks like he's going to strike out here, too. The women are pretty, and the bartender is friendly, but this... isn't him. It's like trying to look for girls at Gotham Community College: they're all very young, very fresh, and very uninterested in someone like him. Most of the women have long hair; the few who have short hair wear polo shirts and jeans. He looks down at his leather pants, then up again at his beer. Glumly, he takes a sip. He doesn't even like to drink.  
“Hey, you- you're new, here.”  
He turns, too fast, his eyes widening. The woman who spoke is much older than him, by some indeterminable span, with long red hair; she's wearing a motorcycle jacket open over her bra. Victor swallows. “Yes, Ma'am.”  
“And cute, too,” she brushes a finger under his chin, “But don't call me Ma'am. I don't like that, unless I'm getting paid. Buy you a drink, honey?”  
“No, but I'd like to buy you one.”  
“Such a gent,” she says, and sits down next to him, “Mine's a Death In the Afternoon. J.J. will know what you mean.”  
J.J., Victor supposes, is the bartender. Victor motions her over. “Death In the Afternoon?” he says.  
The bartender looks at the woman, smiles, says, “Sure.” A moment later, she brings over a champagne glass full of a liquid that looks like they'd drink it on a science fiction show.  
“What's in that?” Victor asks.  
“Champagne and absinthe,” she says, taking a delicate sip, “You want some?”  
“That sounds a little too strong for me.”  
She looks at him. “Say, how old are you, anyway?”  
“Twenty-five.”  
“In about ten years,” she snorts, “I'm not here to bust you. I just wanna know if I'd be breaking any laws if we got friendly, you know what I mean?”  
“Yeah,” Victor breathes, “I know what you mean. No. You wouldn't be breaking any laws.”  
“That wasn't so hard. So, what's your name, honey?”  
“Vicki,” he says too quickly, then adds, “But you can call me 'Victor'.”  
“Like Victor/Victoria? That's cute. I'm Lady Grace.”  
“Is 'Lady' your first name, or are you a member of the aristocracy?”  
“Bit of both,” she says, with a chuckle.  
They do get friendly, that night and the nights that follow. Just not in the way that Victor expects or wants. Though, the more he gets to know Lady Grace, the less he wants to sleep with her. There's nothing wrong with her, but he finds, it feels different when you really know someone. You start to want them to know you. He doesn't think he's ready for her to know him yet.  
So, every night, he drives her home, watches as she enters her building, waits for a light go on upstairs, goes home, jerks off.  
Then, he doesn't see her for a week. He keeps returning to Big Mama's, hoping for her, but just finding the same pretty young women. He buys drinks for a couple of them, gets nervous smiles in return. After a couple of nights, he stops coming, stays up in his room. A hollow feeling unwinds over him. He uses the point of a compass to scrape 'LG' into his ankle. As soon as he does it, he feels stupid; it's such a childish thing to do. He told himself that once high school ended, he wouldn't do this anymore. It still makes him feel better, though; it's like having her with him.  
After a few more days, he drives by her building in the daytime. Women don't like it when you do things like that, but he doesn't know what else to do. To stop this stupid, empty feeling. There's never any sign that she even notices that he's there. The curtains don't stir. No one comes down and yells at him.  
Finally, he makes himself go back to Big Mama's. He can't sit in his room forever. When he sees her sitting at the bar, he feels his heart move in his chest like an agitated eel. The first thing she says when she sees him is: “Have you been coming around my building?”  
“Yes.” He has to tell the truth, to make up for what he did.  
She just exhales in relief, and pats the barstool next to her. He sits. “Oh, good,” she laughs, “One of my neighbors said that some creep was hanging out around there, and, well, I'm sorry, but the first person I thought of was you.”  
He frowns.  
“Not because you're exceptionally creepy. Believe me- I've seen creepier,” she adds, “But because I don't know anyone else stupid enough to dare. Not that you're stupid. You're young; that's almost the same thing.”  
“Why wouldn't they dare?”  
“My job.”  
“Who do you work for?”  
“I can't tell you that!” she laughs, “Anyway, it's not a very nice business.”  
“What kind of business is it?” he furrows his brow, “Are you a hooker?”  
“I'm an entertainer.”  
“What kind of entertaining do you do?”  
“The kind that nice young girls like you don't want anything to do with.”  
He flinches at 'girls'. When his eyes meet hers again, she's looking at him differently.  
“Maybe you're a little bit different from the other- from everyone else here.”  
He shakes his head. He has to. You can't admit to things like that, even if the other person guesses.  
“You don't have to tell me anything, Victor,” she says, softly, places her hand on his knee.  
“Would you like me to buy you a drink?”  
“Yes. That'd be very kind of you. Just one, though.”  
“Do you have to go?”  
“We do. If you want to. You don't have to. I'm just beginning to think that this place isn't really your thing.”  
“No,” he says, laughing with relief, with something deeper than relief, “I actually started to wonder what you were doing here.”  
“It's nice here,” she says dreamily as he orders her Death In the Afternoon, “This was the first place like this I ever came to. It was different, then. A lot of the girls looked like you. It's gotten too wholesome for me to try to get dates here, but I still like it, when I want to have a quiet night.”  
She finishes her drink, and takes his hand.  
“Where are we going?”  
“A friend of mine who owns a club has a little sideline in private parties.” She looks at his leather pants. He knows he shouldn't keep wearing them, but he doesn't want to wear anything else. It's like having a uniform. Your clothes say something about your function in life. He likes what leather makes people think about him. “You'll fit right in.”  
He drives deep into downtown Gotham, past the office buildings, and the docks, and the meatpacking district, until he's completely lost. Then, though, he sees it, like a lighthouse lamp. Can it be?  
“Is this-”  
“Yes, but be cool, honey. You're going to see a lot of people doing a lot of things that you might never have seen before. You might see some people you recognize, from TV or magazines. I need to be able to trust you. I need to know that you're not going to go running back to whatever little suburb you dwell in, and tell all your little friends about the wild night you had at Fish Mooney's.”  
“I never want to go back,” Victor mutters.  
“I know, honey,” she says with a gentle smile, giving his cheek a little smack, “Now, come around and open my door for me.”  
He does, and they walk up to the front. The door opens. Like magic. A big man takes Grace's coat and Victor's jacket. He doesn't want to take it off, but she just laughs, Don't be silly.  
“Have a drink.” She grabs two from a passing tray and presents him with one.  
“I don't like to drink.”  
She shrugs. “Suit yourself. If you're looking for the hard stuff, though, you're probably out of luck, because no one knows you.”  
“I'm not.”  
“Okay. Listen, can I leave you on your own for a little while? I'm gonna go look up some acquaintances.”  
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.  
“You'll be fine?” She smiles gently.  
“Yes, Lady Grace. Thank you.”  
“Think nothing of it.” She pats his cheek, and walks off with the two drinks.  
The crowd is full of the kind of people he's never seen up close before, but knew had to exist. Some of them are beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Lady Grace was right: he has seen some of them in magazines. Like her, in the society supplement in the newspaper that his mother likes to read: the stunning blonde in a lace catsuit. She catches him staring, and she looks him up and down, then winks, before her tall, dark, and gorgeous girlfriend frowns, tuts something at her and leads her away. There's another woman, in a glove-snug dress of red leather, standing out like a brand against all of the black clothing, circling the crowd, occasionally stopping to speak to someone. Just seeing them next to her makes them seem more important. Will she talk to Victor? No. Later, of course, he'll know why. There are the wealthy, wearing it in jewels and gold, lighting up the dark club, and the truly wealthy, dressed simply but exuding luxury. There are the obviously powerful, men in normal suits, indifferent to their surroundings. The most powerful one of all must be the tall man in the understated navy suit, so old that not just his hair but his entire countenance is gray. With him, the beautiful woman in red lingers the longest, bending gracefully toward him, in the way that women do when they need something.  
There are freaks, too. People like Victor. There's a very young, very pointy boy, with hair as black as his suit and a face as white as his shirt, sneaking around the fringes, ostensibly offering people drinks, but obviously trying to do... something else. There are older people like Lady Grace, serious partiers with faces whittled down to the bone, and severe hair, dressed entirely in leather, showing more flesh then is entirely decent. There are people with entire arms and torsos tattooed. There are aging nouveau riche club kids. There are deadpan, near-dessicated figures in buttoned-up black. These, Victor finds the most frightening, and also the most attractive. If the devil were alive in Gotham, he'd look like the old man with the sunglasses pushed up his beaky nose, or the person of unknown gender in the plain black suit, a riding crop tucked under their arm.  
“Having fun?” Lady Grace asks breathlessly, when she comes back. Her top is gone; she's down to her velvet bra.  
“Yes.”  
“Good. Hey, if you're interested, a friend of mine could use some assistance. You wouldn't have to do anything, you wouldn't have to touch him or anything; just watch, maybe laugh occasionally.”  
“Oh. Okay. I can do that.”  
“Thanks.”  
She takes his arm and leads him down a corridor to another room. She opens the door just a crack, and admits them both. In the center of the room, there's a naked man. His hands are bound, and with a jaunty motion, Lady Grace pulls them up, and attaches them to a chain hanging from the ceiling.  
“Hello,” Victor says, wiggling his fingers, because he doesn't know what else to do.  
Throwing her head back, Lady Grace laughs. “I've brought you someone very special,” she coos to the hanged man, “Not that you deserve him. He's twice the man you are.” She laughs again, cruelly, digs her fingers into the man's face, and shakes his head back and forth.  
Victor stands up straight, folds his hands in front of him, and watches.  
Lady Grace is cruel. And she's funny. She says such horrible, amusing things to this man, who groans and weeps at her words, and at the stripes she leaves on his back with- what's that called?- Victor's seen them use it in movies about sailors. Later, she'll tell him it's her cat, running the leather strands affectionately through her fingers.  
“Are you having fun, Victor?” she chuckles, shaking out her hair.  
“Oh, yes.”  
The man groans, but Victor knows that he's having fun, too. Lady Grace is so thrilling. What would it be like to be hit by her, with that whip thing?  
Later, he'll ask her.  
“Do you want to give it a try?” she asks. “Not with this one, though. I'll get something new to use on you.”  
“Really?” He feels his pulse flutter.  
“Yeah, honey. Have you ever done anything like this before?”  
“No.”  
“It might not be what you expect. It's either something you like, or it's not. My friend back there is really into it.”  
“What does he like about it?”  
“He says it's the only time he really gets to feel real. There's probably more to it than that. That's what he tells me, though.”  
“I want to feel like he did. Real.”  
“You don't need me to make you bleed to be real.”  
“I know. I just want to see how much I can take.”  
“I understand. I'm going to go easy on you the first time, though.”

But it's not going to be easy. He knows that. It's good. If it were easy, he wouldn't want it.  
“You want me to say anything to you, while I'm doing it?”  
“Like what?”  
“Well, humiliating names are popular.”  
He folds his arms over his chest. “No.”  
“I didn't think so. You tell me to stop anytime you want.”  
“Okay.” He turns around, takes off his shirt and his bra, supports himself against the wall.  
“I'm gonna start.”  
“Do it.”  
The pain is overwhelming. So much so that it lacks any character. It's just a force, as raw and as implacable as anything in nature, and he finds himself suppressing a cry. He bites his lip. Tears come to his eyes. He sniffs, but he doesn't make another sound.  
“That was very good,” Lady Grace says softly, “If you want to, you can say 'Thank you'.”  
“Thank you,” he says, his voice pleasingly hoarse, “Again, please.”  
“Ask, and ye shall receive.”  
His shoulders are beginning to ache, from holding him up against the wall, and from clenching against the blows. He doesn't make a sound, just breathes in and out.  
“You're very strong. Most people couldn't go this far. If you stop, now, you're still very strong.”  
“One more,” he says through his teeth, “Please.”  
She does it, and now, he does cry out.  
“Okay,” she says, “Okay.”  
She lets him stay as he is, breathing and trembling; he's not even sure if she's still in the room with him. He calls her name.  
“Right here, honey.”  
“Am I bleeding?”  
“Just a little.”  
“How did I do?”  
“You did very well. I've seen men twice your size break down after one blow. Do you want me to clean you up?”  
“Could you? I can't reach back there. Don't look,” he says, before he can stop himself. He hopes that she doesn't ask at what.  
“No, honey.”  
He doesn't make a sound as she daubs the cuts with disinfectant.  
“How are you doing?” she asks.  
“I'm okay.” He is. And he isn't. There's a weird kind of sadness welling up in him, which he can't place. Still, he's calm, and he feels looser, inside; surer of something, even if he doesn't know what it is. If he doesn't know, he doesn't have to worry about it.  
“All done.”  
He puts his shirt back on, but not his bra. “Do you think I'll have scars?”  
“Probably not permanently.”  
He frowns. “No. I want it to scar. Permanently.”  
“You have to go deeper for that.”  
“I want to go deeper, then.”  
“Not yet. You have to work up to it. You don't want to get hurt.”  
He doesn't, does he? “I guess not.”  
“Why don't you lie down for a while?”  
“Can you stay with me?”  
She smiles. “Sure.”  
She takes him to her bedroom, and he lies on her bed, on his side. There's pain, but it's the comforting kind. It makes him feel his body, but not all of it; just the parts he wants to be aware of. He falls asleep, and when he wakes, Lady Grace is reading a magazine.  
She looks up. “Do you feel like staying here, or do you want to go out? You can stay as long as you want, but I have to go to a job.”  
“I can go with you?”  
“Yes. If you promise to do exactly as I say. If you don't, it could be very bad for both of us.”  
“What do I have to do?”  
“Carry my bag. Act like you're my servant.”  
“Your servant?”  
“Like my valet. Do women have valets? Like, if you were a girl, you'd be my maid... 'manservant'- that's the word I was looking for. You'd have to obey me, and only me. Do you think you can do that?”  
“Yes. But don't I look...”  
“What?”  
“Can you do something about the way I look?”  
“I have a jacket you can borrow. Would that help?”  
“Yes. Won't it be small, though?”  
“Belonged to an old boyfriend of mine. You're about his size. It's even black, so it'll go with your outfit.”  
“You had a boyfriend?”  
“I've had a few,” she says with a rakish smile, then, “What, am I the first person you've met who likes both oysters and snails?”  
“What?”  
“It's from a movie. Some people like oysters, some people like snails, and some people like both. Me, I like all kinds of molluscs.”  
Victor thinks about that for a moment, then returns to the present: “And my face?”  
“What about it?”  
“My eyebrows. They look... weird.”  
“I thought you liked them like that.”  
“It's too pretty. I mean, I do them like this, because I have to have eyebrows, but I don't really want them. I'd rather have none.”  
“Okay.”  
“But I can't shave my head. I mean, it'd look okay, if I shaved my head, but with my hair- it doesn't look right.”  
“Do you want to lose the eyebrows, just for today, see how it feels?”  
“Can I?”  
“You can do whatever you want, honey.”  
“As long as you say so?” He grins.  
“There you go; you've got the picture, already. Also, I need to ask: are you adverse to getting physical?”  
He frowns. “How...”  
“Not like that. I mean, if I asked you to hit someone, could you?”  
Victor's never hit someone before. “You'd have to show me how.”  
“Just tuck your thumb in, like this,” she takes his hand in hers, and shows him, “and make sure to keep your wrist straight. If you don't, you could really hurt yourself. Also,” she moves her hands up the back of his arm, “You're hitting from here,” she pats the muscle, “and from your shoulder. It's just like pushing open a heavy door.”  
“Thank you, Lady Grace.”  
“You wash off your eyebrows, and I'll get you that jacket.”

The job went well. Victor knows it did, without having to ask Lady Grace. Inside, he can feel it. Something's ringing, like a bell. When no one's looking at him, he smiles. He had no idea Lady Grace could be so mean. Not playfully mean, but truly vicious. It's thrilling to know someone like that, someone terrifying. He looks at her, then looks away again.  
The next time she has to go to work, he accompanies her again. This time, he wears a man's shirt under the jacket. Last time, he didn't end up hitting anyone, but this time, he does. It feels like nothing else. He looks at Lady Grace. She smiles, and he hits the man again. It's good to do what she tells him to do, but this is also what he wants. He thinks that he could do this forever.  
Afterwards, a man in a suit appears, with a couple of other men- to clean up, Victor supposes.  
“Next time, bring your weird friend again,” the man says amiably to Grace. He's tall and old, and hasn't Victor seen him somewhere before?  
“You're gonna have to be more specific than that, honey,” Lady Grace says with a sheepish smile, “I've got a lot of weird friends.”  
“He means me,” Victor says, without thinking.  
They both turn toward him, like two doors opening inward. Lady Grace's expression quickly goes blank, her face becomes a mask of alabaster, but the man is smiling. “Yes, you,” he says, “No offense taken, I hope,” he looks Victor up and down, “young man.”  
“Thank you, Sir,” then Victor looks down, “I mean, for the opportunity.”  
“I like to foster young talent. It builds loyalty- for the future. I'd like to see more of your work.”  
“It would be an honor, Sir.”  
Falcone smiles again, briefly. “Grace,” he says and nods, and then, he's gone.  
Once he's left, Lady Grace grabs Victor's arm, squeezes tighter than he could have imagined. “Holy shit. You have brass fucking balls.”  
“Why? Who is that?”  
“That is Carmine Falcone, and he owns Gotham. Jesus. We're lucky he was in a good mood, and didn't kill us both, right then. Fuck,” she giggles, “What a rush. Let's go get drunk.”

Slowly, but irrevocably, over the next two years, Lady Grace becomes his world. More than she already was. She takes him to the gun range, teaches him how to shoot; gives him a gun she finds in a handbag at the back of her closet (“Sorry it's so small, honey; I used to carry it a long time ago.”). Through a friend of hers who works at a pharmacy, she gets him testosterone, even gives him his shots. Victor is distressed to find that he's surprisingly squeamish about injecting himself.  
Everything Victor has comes through her, and he knows that he should be scared- because it's wrong, for someone to let you so deeply into their life, and to give you so much, and to ask only, really, that you be willing to do the same for them. Well, it's okay if normal people do it; then, it's called a marriage. If he were a woman, and Lady Grace were a man, it wouldn't be strange for her to install him in her home, to buy him things, to take him places and introduce him to her friends. If a man treats a woman this way, that's the way it's supposed to be.  
Though the crime would probably still be frowned-upon. Since he's known that Lady Grace works for criminals, is a criminal, herself, he probably should have come to his senses, gone to the police and back to his parents. He could make up a story about being corrupted by a lady of the evening. They might even believe him.  
It only makes him want her more. And to look with increasing distaste on how he had to live. Before her. It's nothing so simple as the pride of the jaded- or it is pride, but of a different kind. The less he has to lie, the more he realizes how much he truly hates it. Hated doing it. It makes him hurt, to think about it. Pain that not even he can appreciate, wet and immovable in his chest like water in his lungs. Waiting to drown him.  
The first time he kills someone, it's something of a relief. Now, he can never go back. No one would ask him to. No one would want him to. Whatever else happens, this is something he did, and it can't be taken back.  
Giddy with the feeling, he takes his knife from his pocket, and carves a line, small but deep, into his forearm. Now, it really does belong to him. It's in his skin, now. It's in his blood. For the rest of his life.

One day, he's summoned by Falcone. He isn't even made to wait before he's admitted into his office, where Falcone says, without any preamble: “I want you to work for me.”  
Victor blinks. “I do work for you.”  
“Permanently, I mean.”  
“Yes. I want to do that.”  
“You'd have to leave your old life behind.”  
“My old life?”  
“You could never see your family, your friends, again.”  
“What about Lady Grace?”  
Falcone laughs. “Oh, she's fine. Just don't tell her too much. She's a nice girl, but she talks.”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
“You'd have to change your face, too.”  
“My face?”  
“I'll set you up with some surgeons; they'll make you look any way you want.” Falcone smiles, like he knows something that no one else does. Victor knows exactly what Falcone knows, and can't even hate him for knowing it. “Your own mother won't recognize you.”  
He feels lightheaded. “Yes. I want to.”  
“I just need to make sure that you understand that there's no going back.”  
Of course, Victor can't tell him that his life, as Falcone might recognize it, is already a place he cannot return to. That, functionally, he checked out of that place a long time ago. That, even if this all ends up with Victor dead in an alley, it's still more than Victor ever hoped for.  
So, he just nods.

He does get one last look, though. Many months later, after the surgeries and once he's had a chance to heal, Falcone picks him up, for a trip to an unknown destination. Which finds Victor behind a wall of two-way glass at the police station. His parents and a detective are seated at a table on the other side.  
“I have to show you some pictures,” says the detective in a hoarse voice. Victor frowns. He could at least take off his hat when informing a couple that their child may be dead.  
The detective opens a folder, places his hand over the photo. “This may be disturbing. I have to warn you.”  
“We understand,” says Victor's mother. Victor's father is clutching her hand, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He all but swoons when he gets a paper cut.  
“That's her,” his mother sobs, and Victor feels a chill up his spine at 'her'. “It's her,” she says again, and buries her face in her husband's jacket.  
Gravely, the detective collects the photos, and moves them away.  
“When can we take her home?” Victor's father asks.  
“You can make those arrangements with the medical examiner. I can take you over there right now.”  
“How did it happen?” Victor's mother asks.  
“We think-” the detective clears his throat, “We think that it was self-inflicted. Judging by the angle of the wound and the trajectory of the bullet.”  
“How did you know it was her?”  
“She had ID on her, and we checked her dental records,” he says, his voice like cement porridge, “Just to be sure. Would you like to accompany me?”  
“Yes.” His parents stand, together, as one body, and start toward the door. His mother turns and says stiffly, “Thank you, Detective Bullock.”  
He laughs, a horrible sound. “Please. Don't thank me.”  
They leave the room, Bullock turning out the light behind them.  
Victor looks around, sees Falcone standing behind him, no expression on his face. It's like he's woken up, without realizing he'd fallen asleep. He puts his hand over his heart, receives in response a kick from the still-pink surgical scar beneath his shirt. It's like a thread he can use to pull himself back into the waking world. He does, and it yanks him back down, throws him to the earth.


End file.
